Sunday felt endless. I wanted to go to work, distract my mind, and get away from everyone. I needed to pull myself together—but how? What had I dreamed of, and what had I found in you? Did erasing myself from everywhere mean anything to you? You didn't even call me. You didn't apologize. I was just weak enough to wait for you, and your explanation. If only I had sensed your regret—I would have forgiven you, my love, Chris.
What kind of relationship was this? Did I mean nothing to you?
Monday came at last. My morale was low, no energy—but I went to work. I told my office "sister" everything. She offered some comfort, some hard truths. "You two were going to break up anyway," she said. "He doesn't want to stay here. He wants to live in another city." Maybe she was right.
My life became home-to-work and back again.
Two or three weeks passed—I don't remember exactly, but it was a while after the incident. Then I got a message from him. Chris wanted to talk. I guess he'd been waiting for my anger to cool down. More experienced, wasn't he? After talking to four women at once, surely he had figured out how we all tick.
I agreed to meet.
He insisted we talk somewhere private. He picked me up in his car and drove to a quiet beach. Then he started explaining: that he didn't feel ready for a serious relationship, that his family trauma—his father—had made the concept of "family" foreign to him. He said he knew he wouldn't succeed in a relationship. And even though he loved me, he admitted he was always looking for escape routes. He confessed he was scared and overwhelmed, that he sought comfort in other people because he knew I was serious about him.
Maybe everyone has their own way of justifying things.
In relationships, I guess… everyone thinks they're right.